


on the edge with no control

by chasingredballoons



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Limousine Sex, Mild Praise Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, post-masquerade comic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 17:19:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12730920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingredballoons/pseuds/chasingredballoons
Summary: “Ask her about Saint Petersburg? Really?” The first words out of Widowmaker’s mouth as she stalks up to where Sombra is still lounging by the bar, one eyebrow raised in irritation and a pissed off frown on her pretty face, and it’s an annoyed accusation. How rude. “What if he had actually asked? Hm?”They haven't been left alone for one minute all evening and this is how Widowmaker greets Sombra? No hello? No merci for taking out the security cameras and warning us about Vialli’s men? No bonsoir cherie you are looking ravishing as always would you care to join me in the privacy of the ladies room so I can tear that dress off you? She’d picked this exact dress to get a reaction out of Widowmaker, and Sombra is a little put out that she hasn’t caught Widowmaker glancing at her chest once.





	on the edge with no control

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up to the party months late with starbucks and masquerade spiderbyte smut*  
> title from into you by ariana grande and you can find me on tumblr either at [my main tumblr](http://colomarlacroix.tumblr.com) or [my writing tumblr](http://chasingredballoons.tumblr.com)

“Ask her about Saint Petersburg? Really?” The first words out of Widowmaker’s mouth as she stalks up to where Sombra is still lounging by the bar, one eyebrow raised in irritation and a pissed off frown on her pretty face, and it’s an annoyed accusation. How  _rude_. “What if he had actually asked? Hm?”

They haven't been left alone for one minute all evening and this is how Widowmaker greets Sombra? No  _hello_? No  _merci for taking out the security cameras and warning us about Vialli’s men_? No  _bonsoir cherie you are looking ravishing as always would you care to join me in the privacy of the ladies room so I can tear that dress off you_? She’d picked this exact dress to get a reaction out of Widowmaker, and Sombra is a little put out that she hasn’t caught Widowmaker glancing at her chest  _once_.

“I have faith in your ability to lie on the spot, cariño,” Sombra replies with a smirk. “Besides, Akande was just saying how impressed he was with your performance in London,” she continues, making zero effort to hide the way her gaze drags across all the skin Widowmaker’s dress exposes. “I happen to be have been very impressed by your  _performance_ in Saint Petersburg.”

Sombra knows she’s very close to crossing a line here, brazenly referencing their ‘arrangement’ in public, but it’s absolutely worth it to watch the slight lavender flush rise on Widowmaker’s cheekbones even as her eyes narrow to glare at Sombra.

“Tais-toi.”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” Sombra retorts without missing a beat, gesturing at the bartender with the hand holding her glass before Widowmaker can make another scathing comment. “So, can I buy you a drink?”

The omnic bartender floats over to them as if on cue, and Widowmaker stops shooting daggers at Sombra long enough to order a kir royale. How predictably French.

The eyeliner around Widowmaker’s left eye is ever so slightly smudged, and a few strands of hair have come loose from her extravagant updo, but aside from that there’s no indication that Widowmaker beat up at least three men twice her size and crushed the windpipe of another less than five minutes ago. Sombra’s actually kind of impressed. But she’s also kind of distracted. She’s used to Widowmaker’s ridiculous mission catsuit, she can handle seeing Widowmaker parading around in that, but she isn’t used to seeing Widowmaker looking like  _this_.

Logically, Sombra knows she should make her leering a little less obvious. While there’s no danger of Akande or Gabriel seeing them, Maximilien is still lurking around and Sombra hasn't quite figured out where his allegiances lie yet. But she hasn’t had a chance to steal Widowmaker away to her pretentious mansion in Annecy for  _weeks_ now thanks to Talon and their incessant missions, and Widowmaker looks even more unfairly attractive than usual, what with the make-up and the hair and that goddamn dress that makes Sombra want to pin her against the nearest wall more than usual, and Sombra is only human. She can’t help but stare.

Widowmaker turns her head to survey the rest of the bar’s patrons, and when Sombra’s gaze drops down to her neck, all she can think about is the way Widowmaker whimpers and moans whenever Sombra sinks her teeth into Widowmaker’s throat.

Widowmaker taps her perfectly manicured fingers against the bar, a nervous habit when there’s too many people around, and Sombra shifts slightly in her seat when she recalls just how good Widowmaker is with her fingers.

Widowmaker smiles and offers a polite  _merci_ when the bartender places her drink in front of her, and Sombra barely suppresses a shiver when she thinks about all the times that perfect accent has whispered filthy sweet nothings right into her ear while she’s being pounded into the mattress. Or on top of a desk. Or against a wall.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Widowmaker grumbles, without sparing a glance at Sombra.

Sombra fights off a smile. “Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking about Saint Petersburg.”

Sombra grins. “Guilty as charged.” Widowmaker gives her an unimpressed look over the rim of her glass. “What? You can’t seriously expect me to control myself when you’re dressed like that, can you?” Sombra inches closer to Widowmaker on her barstool, not bothering to hide the way her gaze drifts down to the tempting swell of cleavage shown off by Widowmaker’s dress. “Besides, I know how you get after having to physically fight someone. How amped up you get from all that extra adrenaline, with no Talon-approved way to work it off.” Sombra reaches out to trace her fingers along Widowmaker’s arm suggestively. “And it’s been far too long since we had the chance to—”

“Sombra,” Widowmaker hisses, eyes glancing furtively around. “Not here. Akande and Gabriel—”

“Have left already,” Sombra interrupts, and continues at Widowmaker’s questioning look. “I told Gabe I’d get a ride back to the safehouse with you before we left for Annecy.” Widowmaker raises an eyebrow in disbelief, presumably at the word  _we_ , and Sombra cocks her head to the side in faux confusion. “What? You didn’t think I was letting you go back to your secret, secluded, isolated mansion that Talon knows nothing about, all by yourself, did you? What kind of  _friend_ would I be if I left you all alone there, hm?”

Sombra lets one hand fall onto Widowmaker’s thigh, low enough to seem fairly innocent to any onlookers, but high enough to make Sombra’s intentions clear. Widowmaker’s breath hitches audibly when Sombra trails her fingertips higher to brush over the skin left bare by the slit in her dress, and they  _really_ need to find somewhere private soon before Sombra does something stupid like pounce on Widowmaker in full view of the casino.

Widowmaker turns to look at her, and Sombra feels her whole body heat up in response to the intense stare. Widowmaker’s pupils are blown wide, her lips slightly parted as her golden gaze flickers from Sombra’s eyes down to her mouth, and honestly, Sombra has no idea why Widowmaker tries to pretend she doesn’t want her when her body gives her away every single time.

“You took the limo here, right?” Sombra murmurs. It’s a thirty minute drive from Monaco to the Talon safehouse on the outskirts of Nice, and Sombra has a very good idea how they can spend that time.

The smirk that makes its way onto Widowmaker’s face is barely perceptible, but Sombra sees the corners of her mouth twitch up. “I did.”

Sombra knocks back the rest of her drink, and gestures towards the casino exit. “After you, araña.”

The second the limousine’s door swings shut behind them and the autopilot starts up with a cheerful electronic greeting of  _welcome back Madame Guillard_ , Sombra shoves Widowmaker down against the plush leather seats, climbs into her lap, cups her face in her hands and kisses her. It starts off relatively chaste, all things considered, nothing more than the gentle press of lips against lips. Then it occurs to Sombra that she hasn’t gotten laid in almost a month, and there’s only a thirty minute window before Widowmaker will make her behave herself during the post-mission debrief in the safehouse  _and_ on the plane to Annecy, so the kiss gets a lot less chaste and a lot more heated very quickly.

Widowmaker’s hands land on her hips, pulling her forward to press them harder together, and Sombra groans into the kiss when Widowmaker’s tongue brushes against her lower lip. The rumble of the limo’s engines fades away along with the rest of the world as she happily parts her lips, letting Widowmaker deepen the kiss while she lifts her hands to Widowmaker’s hair, eager to get it out of the ever-present ponytail.

There hasn’t been many opportunities for Sombra to get Widowmaker—  _no, Amélie_ , Sombra corrects herself in her head. They’re alone, away from Talon’s prying eyes, it’s safe to think of her as Amélie now. There hasn’t been many opportunities for Sombra to get  _Amélie_ alone in the past few weeks due to Talon interfering, but if the way she sighs happily into the kiss is any indication, she’s missed it just as much as Sombra has. Her arms tighten around Sombra’s waist as her soft lips press harder against Sombra’s, and she can taste the alcohol from earlier on Amélie’s tongue when it slides against her own.

Sombra finally gets Amélie’s hair free from the tie, immediately tangling her fingers in the wave of indigo that cascades down her back and tugging her head back to press kisses against her throat.

“Do you have any idea how damn distracting you were tonight?” Sombra mutters in between peppering kisses to Amélie’s cool skin.

“I have an idea,” Amélie chuckles, her voice slightly higher than usual. “But you are not the only one who has had a hard time keeping her hands to herself tonight,” she continues, a breathy whimper escaping her when Sombra nips at her pulse point. “I just happen to be better at hiding it.”

Well. Sombra can’t really argue with that.

Amélie’s hands shift from their position on Sombra’s hips, one slipping round to paw shamelessly at Sombra’s ass, and the other tangling itself in Sombra’s hair, keeping her pressed to Amélie’s neck as she kisses and licks and sucks at her skin. Resisting the urge to sink her teeth in and cover Amélie with possessive marks, Sombra kisses her way back up to Amélie’s mouth, fighting off a smug smirk when Amélie kisses her back with slightly less finesse than usual.

Without breaking the kiss, Sombra maneuvers them down to lie against the seats, nudging Amélie’s thighs apart so she can settle in between them. She’s a little amused at how willingly they spread for her; clearly Sombra’s not the only one who’s been eager to get some alone time.

Amélie wraps one of her legs around Sombra’s waist, pulling her down to press them harder together, and Sombra shifts her weight to her other arm so she can trail her fingers across the skin left bare by the slit in her dress. Sombra drags her nails lightly across the tattoo on Amélie’s thigh, smirking into the kiss when she feels her tremble slightly, and Amélie’s hips twitch up when Sombra lets her hand drift lower, unable to resist groping at Amélie’s ass when it’s within reach.

Sombra abandons Amélie’s mouth in favour of kissing down her throat, moving the hand on her ass further in to let her fingertips press teasingly against the front of Amélie’s damp underwear, just to hear the breathy whimper it pulls from her, and the subsequent annoyed huff when Sombra removes her hand entirely.

“Patience,” Sombra chuckles against Amélie’s collarbone.

“ _Patience_  is not a thing I seem to possess much of when it comes to you,” Amélie grumbles, one of her hands coming up to tangle in Sombra’s hair, the other stroking lazily up and down her back.

The limo isn’t quite big enough for all the things Sombra wants to do to Amélie, but it’ll do until they get back to Chateau Guillard and Sombra can spend the rest of the night unraveling Amélie over and over again.

Hooking her fingers under the straps of Amélie’s dress, she tugs them down for Amélie to wriggle her arms free and then pushes the dress down to expose her chest.

“ _Dios_ , I have wanted to tear your clothes off since the second I saw you this evening,” Sombra murmurs against Amélie’s chest, ducking her head to drag her tongue across one of Amélie’s nipples the second the fabric is pushed out of the way.

“Always the romantic,” Amélie gasps, her fingers tightening their grip on Sombra’s hair.

Sombra is far too preoccupied with Amélie’s now-bare chest to come up with a witty retort. Amélie whimpers and squirms underneath Sombra as she works her mouth and lips and tongue over Amélie’s chest, swirling her tongue and scraping her teeth over Amélie’s nipples exactly how Sombra knows she likes it. Sombra glances up and groans quietly to herself at the sight of Amélie with her head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted, breathing slightly faster than her usual lethargic pace.

Sombra lets go of the nipple in her mouth with a wet pop, and lifts her hand from where it had been absentmindedly rubbing at Amélie’s hip up to her neck, lightly tracing her fingers up the soft skin of her throat and along her jawline, before pressing the pads of her fingers against Amélie’s bottom lip.

“Open up,” Sombra says, and Amélie obediently parts her lips and lets Sombra slide her fingers into her mouth. Sombra shifts herself further up Amélie’s body with her free hand so she can watch, and Amélie blinks up at her, her blown pupils unfocused as she sucks gently on Sombra’s fingers.

“Good girl,” Sombra murmurs, watching the way Amélie practically melts underneath her, her quiet moan muffled by the fingers pressing down on her tongue as Sombra slowly slides them deeper. Her knuckles brush against Amélie’s top lip, which is about the point that Amélie can take them comfortably, and so Sombra pushes them further into Amélie’s mouth, holding them there for a few seconds until she feels more than hears the choked noise Amélie makes in the back of her throat, before retracting them completely. Amélie sucks in a breath, looking up at Sombra with a half-wild expression before she slides her hands into Sombra’s hair and tugs her down into a frantic kiss.

“Please,” Amélie pants breathlessly against Sombra’s mouth. “Please touch me.”

The sound of Amélie begging sends a flash of heat through Sombra, and she trails her damp fingers down Amélie’s chest, flicking lightly at her nipples before disappearing under her dress. Sombra doesn’t waste any time sliding her hand into Amélie’s underwear, groaning quietly when her fingers are immediately met with hot slick arousal, and  _God_ , Sombra doesn’t think she’ll ever stop being surprised at just how  _warm_ Amélie can get there, even when the rest of her body is still only a few degrees above frigid. Amélie whimpers her name quietly, and Sombra leans down to steal a kiss while she draws lazy circles around Amélie’s clit with her fingertips.

Amélie is wet enough that Sombra can sink two fingers into her easily, scissoring them apart gently as she slides in as deep as she can. Amélie whines and curses softly under her breath, high and breathy and easily one of the hottest noises Sombra has ever heard.

Amélie is never especially vocal, but the noises she does make, the quiet moans and breathless gasps and soft whimpers of Sombra’s name, all serve to make Sombra’s entire body burn hotter and hotter and for her pulse to throb heavily between her thighs.

“God, do you have any idea what you do to me?” Sombra murmurs without really thinking, dipping her head to trail kisses along Amélie’s jaw. “You feel so good, you look so good, I could do this to you for hours, fuck you until you come around my fingers or in my mouth over and over.”

Amélie’s breath catches in her throat as Sombra’s rambling trails off, too distracted by the sight of Amélie underneath her to continue with the dirty talk. One arm thrown above her head while the other claws at Sombra’s back, the lilac flush has spread down to her chest where her breasts bounce slightly with each thrust of Sombra’s fingers, her half-open eyes are completely unfocused, and her kiss-bruised lips are parted to let all the whimpers and moans spill out freely. The fabric of Amélie’s dress obscures where her hand is but she can picture it in her head, how easily Amélie opens around her fingers, how her clit peeks out from its hood, practically calling to Sombra to get her mouth on it, how slick and shiny her fingers are when she withdraws them before pushing them back in.

Amélie’s breathing grows more and more uneven, punctuated by quiet moans and small gasps as Sombra slowly increases the pace of her fingers. “Ne s'arrête pas,” Amélie pleads breathlessly, immediately following that with a desperate  _plus fort, plus fort_ and Sombra has picked up enough French since she started this… _thing_ with Amélie to know what she wants.

Sombra quickens her pace, curling her fingers to press against the spot that makes Amélie lose it every time and angling her hand to brush her thumb against her swollen clit. It doesn’t take long for Amélie to get close; Sombra can feel her twitching and pulsing around her fingers as she reaches her peak.

Amélie goes tense for a split second, before her back arches, her nails dig into Sombra’s back hard enough to leave little half-moon crescents in her skin, and she clenches down tightly on Sombra’s fingers, the desperate cry as she comes hard around Sombra’s fingers slightly muffled from where she pushes her face into Sombra’s neck.

Sombra gently slides her fingers out when the last aftershocks have faded and Amélie’s whole body has gone slack underneath her, and Amélie watches her with half-lidded eyes and a lazy, satisfied smile as Sombra sucks her fingers into her mouth to lick them clean. Sombra leans back down, whispering  _you always taste so good cariño_ , a second before her lips meet Amélie’s in a hungry kiss, swallowing Amélie’s answering moan.

The smooth electronic voice of the limousine’s autopilot pipes up over the sound of kissing and Amélie still trying to catch her breath, announcing they’ll be arriving at the Nice safehouse in approximately fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes is practically a luxury compared to some of the tiny windows of time they’ve managed to steal quick fucks in before. Prior to Amélie acquiring the rights to Chateau Guillard, Sombra’s pretty sure she can count the number of times they had sex in an actual bed on one hand.

“Fifteen minutes,” Amélie repeats, her low voice sending a shiver down Sombra’s spine. “That is more than enough time for me to have you come around my fingers.”

Amélie sits up, shifting so she’s sitting back up rather than sprawled across the limo seats and pulls Sombra into her lap, not giving Sombra a chance to respond before she’s being tugged into a messy kiss. Amélie sucks on her bottom lip, nibbling at it gently before swiping her tongue into Sombra’s mouth, and  _God_ Sombra can barely think straight, can hardly focus on anything beyond her senses being sent into overdrive.

The smell of sex and Amélie’s pompous expensive perfume surrounding her clouds her brain, the sweet lingering taste of champagne on Amélie’s tongue as it brushes against her own makes her head spin, and she can almost hear her own heartbeat hammering a staccato rhythm against her ribs.

Amélie’s hands slide up her back, one cupping the back of her head gently while the other tugs at the halter of Sombra’s dress, managing to get it over her head without getting it caught on her necklace or hair or earrings. The red fabric pools around her waist, and Amélie gives her chest an appreciative look, murmuring something — probably outrageously crude — under her breath in French, before her lips land on Sombra’s throat.

Sombra just barely manages to stop a pathetically desperate whimper from coming out when Amélie’s teeth scrape against her pulse point, questioningly gentle at first and then slightly harder when Sombra makes no attempt to stop her.

While Talon would rightfully throw a fit if their prized assassin showed up for a medical check-up or a high ranking mission covered in hickeys, Sombra couldn’t care less about the organisation’s opinions of her, and therefore has absolutely no reservations about letting Amélie indulge her possessive streak and cover her skin with bruises.  _Marking her territory_ , Amélie likes to call it, always whispered against Sombra’s ear in that low, rough voice that makes Sombra’s brain completely malfunction. When Amélie seems content with the number of marks she’s left on Sombra’s throat, she moves south, peppering kisses across Sombra’s collarbone and then further down to her chest.

This time Sombra can’t hold back the low whimper when Amélie’s cool lips wrap around her nipple, her tongue flicking lightly across it. She’s already hopelessly turned on from making Amélie come, heat aching between her thighs and her soaked underwear sticking to her with every minute shift of her hips, and each swipe of Amélie’s tongue just adds to the heat burning low in her stomach.

Her hips jerk forward involuntarily and her fingers tighten in Amélie’s hair when her hand comes up to toy with her other nipple, pinching gently and tugging at the barbell piercing.

“Have I mentioned recently how much I like these?” Amélie asks, like she doesn’t know exactly how sensitive Sombra is.

“Once or twice,” Sombra whimpers, her voice going embarrassingly high as Amélie’s tongue circles around her nipple.

“One day,” Amélie continues, as casually as if they were discussing renovation plans for the chateau. “I’m going to tie you up and see if I can make you come just from doing this.”

Amélie punctuates the word  _this_ with a sharp pinch to her nipple, and all Sombra can summon in response is a moan, all higher brain function that is required for speech having temporarily deserted her. It isn’t something that’s happened with any previous partners she’s had, but with the way Sombra’s body reacts to Amélie like it has with no one else, and with Amélie’s legendary patience and focus...

Sombra is snapped out of her daze by Amélie’s hands slipping under the dress to press against Sombra’s thighs, her cool palms skimming up and up but stopping just short of where Sombra is embarrassingly desperate to be touched.

“Amélie,” Sombra whines, idly wondering if Amélie will let her get away with physically tugging her hand to where Sombra wants it. She really doesn’t need this much foreplay, not after having already fucked Amélie and certainly not after the month long dry spell. Although she gets the feeling Amélie knows this, and is just being an insufferable tease, as usual.

“I believe you were saying something earlier about  _patience_?” Amélie replies with a chuckle, confirming Sombra’s suspicions. Whatever smartass comment Sombra was about to come up with dies in her throat when one of Amélie’s hands dips between her legs. A shudder runs straight down her spine when Amélie lightly drags her fingernails up the sensitive skin on the inside of Sombra’s thigh, higher and higher until Sombra is letting out a relieved moan when Amélie  _finally_ touches her. Her fingers trace lightly over her underwear, the lace already soaked through to the point where she can feel every touch of Amélie’s fingers even through the barrier of the fabric.

“So wet already,” Amélie purrs, sounding exceedingly pleased with herself. Sombra just whines in response when Amélie increases the pressure of her fingers, slowly rubbing at Sombra’s clit through her underwear.

Sombra is about two seconds from clambering off Amélie’s lap to yank her underwear off and demand-slash-beg that Amélie gets a move on, when Amélie’s fingers hook into the fabric, and a second later there’s a loud ripping noise as Amélie - literally - tears her underwear off.

Sombra abruptly jerks back to glare down at Amélie. “Hey!”

“They were in my way,” Amélie offers with a smug grin.

“I liked that pair,” Sombra grumbles, and it’s supposed to sound disapproving, but it loses its impact from the way her breath hitches when Amélie brushes a finger across her clit, so light she can barely feel it.

“They were ruined anyway, were they not?” Amélie purrs, and Sombra promptly forgets to care about her destroyed underwear when Amélie’s fingers press firmly against her.

Amélie slides through the abundant wetness, her fingers nudging against her entrance, pushing in a fraction of an inch, the faint stretch disintegrating the remains of Sombra’s composure, before sweeping up to circle teasingly around her clit, enough friction to feel mind-blowingly good but nowhere near enough to get her off yet. She’s probably dripping down Amélie’s wrist by this point, and she can’t help the loud moan that rips its way from her throat when Amélie abruptly slides two fingers knuckle deep into her.

“Fuck,” Sombra gasps out, unconsciously digging her nails into Amélie’s shoulders. Amélie gives her a second to get accustomed to the stretch before she starts a languid pace thrusting into Sombra. Sombra rests their foreheads together, dazedly blinking her eyes open to see Amélie already watching her with wide amber eyes.

It still catches her off-guard sometimes, even after all these months, the way Amélie looks at her when they’re alone. The first time she’d met the supposedly emotionless assassin, she never would have thought Amélie’s cold golden eyes could be so expressive, that a single heated look from her would be enough to send a shiver down Sombra’s spine and make her clench down around the fingers buried inside her.

“Good?” Amélie asks, a little breathlessly.

“ _Yes_ , fuck, so good,” Sombra groans, pulling Amélie into a messy kiss. “You’re always so good.”

Is she saying it because she knows how much Amélie gets off on it, as proven by the quiet noise Amélie makes against her mouth? Partly. Is she also saying it because it’s the truth? Completely. Sombra has been fucked by a lot of women in her life, but none of them have ever come close to the way Amélie touches her or the way Amélie looks at her.

“Keep talking,” Amélie murmurs. “Please.”

“God. You feel so fucking  _good_ ,” Sombra babbles, the way Amélie has started curling her fingers to press against the spot that makes her see stars making it a little difficult to string coherent sentences together. “No one has ever fucked me as good as you, no one has ever made me feel the way you do.”

Amélie makes one of the most obscene noises Sombra’s ever heard in her life, burying her face in Sombra’s neck and pressing frantic kisses to her skin, sinking her teeth in and adding to the bruises already blossoming on her skin.

Each thrust of Amélie’s fingers sends another wave of pleasure through her, and Amélie’s mouth, blessedly cool against her overheated skin, kissing and sucking and biting at her neck sends her brain spiraling off into blissful oblivion where nothing exists except herself and Amélie. Before too long Sombra finds herself rapidly approaching her breaking point.

“Fuck, fuck I’m so close,” Sombra moans, ignoring the slight ache in her trembling thighs from keeping herself hovering over Amélie and rocking her hips down to ride the fingers buried inside her harder. “More.”

She’s teetering right on the brink, her whole body pulled taut and every nerve in her body feels alight as her hips erratically meet Amélie’s thrusts. She’s  _so_ close, she just needs a little more—

Amélie slides a third finger into her, purrs  _I want to feel you come for me chérie_ right into Sombra’s ear, and swipes her thumb over her clit once, twice, three times, and that’s all it takes for Sombra to be pushed over the edge. Amélie keeps up the slow deep thrusts, drawing out the orgasm as long as possible until it's bordering on too much, and Sombra reaches down and weakly bats her hand away. Amélie gently withdraws her fingers, prompting a final jolt of pleasure, and Sombra sags forward, collapsing against Amélie’s front while she tries to catch her breath.

When she eventually blinks her eyes open, Sombra is met with the sight of Amélie slowly sucking her fingers clean. Her gaze instantly zeroes in on Amélie’s mouth, on her dark blue lips — all the lipstick from earlier having been smudged or smeared off; mostly onto Sombra’s skin — wrapped around her long fingers, and the sight sends a weak flash of heat through her.

“It is a shame we are only five minutes from the safehouse,” Amélie comments, tangling her clean hand in Sombra’s hair and pulling her forward for a kiss. “Because I am nowhere near finished with you yet, chérie.”

Sombra shudders at the implications, and whimpers against Amélie’s mouth when her tongue brushes against her bottom lip. Much as she would love to let the kiss deepen, Sombra forces herself to reign it in before she gets too carried away and she ends up with her head buried between Amélie’s thighs while the limousine’s autopilot informs them that they've been sitting outside the Nice safehouse for twenty minutes.

It's only a few more hours, then she’ll have Amélie all to herself. No Talon, no airports, no interruptions.

“Patience,” Sombra says in response to the pout on Amélie’s face. “We just have to wait until we’re back at the chateau, and then you can do whatever you want to me.”

The smile that lights up Amélie’s face is not one that Sombra would normally associate with a cold-blooded emotionless killer. “Whatever I want?”

“Whatever you want,” Sombra confirms, clambering off Amélie’s lap and trying to make herself look a little less like she just got fucked in the backseat of a limo. Amélie, inevitably, still manages to look as perfectly dignified as ever, despite her slightly ruffled hair and the dress still pooled indecently around her waist, whereas Sombra probably looks like she got mauled by a pack of lipstick-wearing wolves.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Amélie replies with a smug smirk, reaching out to wipe some lipstick off Sombra’s throat with her thumb. "Sorry about your neck."

Sombra snorts. "No you aren't."

Amélie hums thoughtfully for a second, before a smug smile overtakes her features. "You are right. I am not sorry."

The look of unguarded happiness on Amélie's face tugs at a place in Sombra’s chest that she shut off from the rest of the world years ago. She doesn’t think she ever hates Talon more than these little stolen moments with Amélie, where she isn’t putting on her cold emotionless facade, where she’s allowed to just exist. Not quite Amélie, but not quite Widowmaker.

Sombra isn’t stupid enough to go falling for the ghost of a dead woman, and she has no idea if Amélie is even capable of love. She knows it’s more than just sex for Amélie from the way Amélie clings to her when she’s coming down from her high, and from the way she catches Amélie looking at her when she thinks Sombra isn’t looking and if she’s being honest with herself, it stopped being  _just sex_ for herself too a long time ago. Sombra isn’t stupid enough to go falling for someone who could never love her back, but  _God_ if Amélie didn’t make it easy to forget that.


End file.
